"I can't help it," said Kilner, "other people's love affairs always
are comic, and Fourmy--well, he is simply inappropriate in a community
of creatures who live by cunning."
"You've hit it," replied Lotta. "I've been trying to understand what
it was made him so exceptional. Creatures who live by cunning----
Thank you, Mr. Kilner."
"All artists are like that. Cunning is no use in the pursuit of art.
But they are insulated by their work as ordinary people are by
convention and habit. No artist takes personal relationships
seriously. They happen. He handles them well or makes a mess of them.
It does not greatly matter. The ordinary being cannot appreciate any
personal relationship until it is conventionalized and stripped of its
vigor and value. Well--you have seen your Fourmy in action."
"And well worth seeing too."
Kilner told her what he could make of the new disaster, and how Ann
had hated him and destroyed his work.
"I imagine," he said, "that the same blind instinct operated against
Fourmy. He's creative also in a way. My pictures, his life, his
precious romantic life, are both things slowly shaped out of chaos,
and the creative process in a man is absolutely indifferent to the
stupid security most women value. Ann did her ridiculous little best
to stop it in both of us."
"Poor girl," said Lotta, "I can imagine the two of you driving her
distracted. After all, what she was going through was important to
her."
"But only to her. She wanted it to be important for him. It couldn't
be: it was quite meaningless."
"Nature is cruelly indifferent."
"If she weren't," said Kilner, "we should never have developed
intelligence, let alone imagination."
"What are we to do with them?"
"I'll look after Fourmy if you'll take charge of Ann. Only, remember,
you are not supposed to know that she did it, and, please, I have told
you nothing about my picture."
The caution was unnecessary, for Ann tumbled out a full confession as
she sank into the comfort of Lotta's kindness. She guessed at once who
Lotta was, but was too exhausted for resentment. She had dragged
herself off to her work in order to fill in the creeping hours.
Lotta said she was a friend of René's, and wished to help, and asked
if there was anything she could do. Ann burst into tears and rolled
her head from side to side, and cried:
"Oh! I wish I was dead, I do. I nearly did myself in last night when
he lay there in the dark not saying a word. I wish I had--I wish I
had. I never been so miserable. . . ."
Lotta comforted her as best she could, clumsily dropping a word in
here and there as Ann poured out her confused narrative.
Ann kept on saying:
"He ought to have gone if he wanted to go."
"But he couldn't leave you like that----"
"It was seeing him again done it. I couldn't bear it, seeing him and
knowing he was wanting to go."
"He was wanting you to feel that--that he was not going out of
indifference to you."
"He doesn't want me. He said that."
"My dear child, you mustn't think about it like that. You must see
that it is ended now."
"I'll never care for anybody again--not like that."
"Don't make things harder for yourself. How do you know?"
"You're only young once."
"Love is stronger when youth is gone."
Ann believed that. She wanted to believe in Lotta, and she sat very
quietly, almost like a child, while the quiet, gentle woman tried to
explain to her that René had taken nothing away, that their love must
die for all it had lacked, that there was no disgrace in a failure to
bring a love to life, that it was happening everywhere, every day, and
that a dead love was the most horrible of prisons. And, said Lotta, if
a child was to be born, it were better not to bring it into such
captivity, better not to have the joy and beauty of motherhood spoiled
by jealousy and disappointment in the failure of love. Ann wept anew.
People were so kind, she said: there was Old Martin, and now there was
Lotta; and she had only dreaded her loneliness of being left alone to
face "that." Lotta said there was no question of being left alone. If
Ann liked, she could come to her hostel as maid, and when her time
came she could go out to the country.
"I think," said Lotta, "that all children ought to be born and bred in
the country. Don't you?"
"The mews," replied Ann, "is not much of a place for them."
She did not quite like the idea of being "in service," but Lotta
explained that it did not necessarily mean for always. Once the baby
was born and provided for, Ann could go back to her factory and take
up her life, if she wished, where it was before René came into it.
"But I'll always want to hear about him," said Ann.
"Of course. He'll always want to hear about you."
"And see him."
"He'll want to see you too."
So it was arranged, and Ann promised to be at the hostel next morning.
When Lotta had gone, she sat down and wrote:
"DEAR RENNY,--I do want you to forgive me. I have been awful, but not
without excuse. I do like Miss Lotta. She's been an angel to me and
made me feel awfuller. I'm going to her. A letter for you to say you
'ad come into some money. I tore it up when I first began to feel bad
toward you. I don't feel bad any more.--Your loving ANN."
This confession reached René at the same time as a letter from his
brother George conveying the same news. The attorney in Edinburgh had
written to say he had no reply from Mr. René Fourmy, and to ask for
information as to his whereabouts. "This," said George, "has been a
bit of a shock to us. We'd counted on something from the old lady.
However, it makes a difference to you. If you feel inclined to come up
and see us I'll be glad to have you. I suppose you'll give up the
street-slogging. The old man has been in London. Did you see him?"
René announced his intention of going to Thrigsby. His mind was going
back and back over his life in the attempt to understand it. If he
could see George and his mother, he felt and hoped that he might be
able to follow up the threads placed in his hands by his chance
encounter with his father.
A day or two later saw him arriving at the Albert Station with his arm
in a sling. George was there to meet him.
"Hullo, old sport," he said, "been in the wars?"
René told the lie invented by Kilner for the doctor.
"By Jove," said George, "you have been roughing it. I'll tell that to
the youngsters in our office when they get dotty about Canada and the
Wild West. Wild West of London, eh?" and he chuckled at his own joke.
"Elsie's quite excited," he said, as they boarded the Hog Lane tram.
"And mother?" asked René.
"Well. Hum. You'll find a difference in the mother."
René was struck by many changes. New warehouses, new rows of shops,
some attempt to bring distinction into the architecture of the city,
though, for the most part, nothing but ostentation was attained. They
passed the university. There were new buildings there, more like an
insurance office than ever. Streets that he remembered as respectable
and prosperous had become slums swarming with grimy children. A great
piece had been taken out of Potter's Park for the building of a
hideous art gallery. The trams now passed down Hog Lane West, with the
result that most of the houses had apartment cards in their fanlights.
George had moved from The Nest into 168. He could get a larger house
for the same rent. His house was exactly the same as their old home.
It gave René a depressing idea that nothing had changed. George was
fatter: Elsie thinner. They had four children.
George was in the same office, and, as he said, had flung away
ambition: too many children to take risks, and after all there was
nothing in the small firm now. The one or two connections you depended
on might go bust any day. It needed enormous capital to stand the
fluctuations of prices. He had got a rise by pretending to go and was
quite content. He played bowls in the summer and bridge in the winter.
And Elsie? What with the house and the mother she had plenty to do,
plenty to do.
As René walked along the passage he felt uncannily certain that he
would find his mother sitting by the fireplace knitting. And it was
so. She raised her eyes and looked at him with timid anxiety, held out
her cheek to be kissed, went on knitting, and said:
"Now sit down and give an account of yourself."
He edited his experiences, and she listened without interest. Most of
his talk was of Kilner.
"Artists are very immoral men, aren't they?"
René shrugged.
"It depends," he said, "on what you mean by morality."
"There _are_ rules," said she, "and commandments."
"My friend has rules," he replied, "rather good ones. He dislikes
doing anything which interferes with his power to paint."
"To me that sounds very selfish."
"I don't think we can argue about that, mother."
"No. I suppose you made very little money."
"Three pounds a week."
"I suppose you could do with that, with only yourself to keep. Though
it seems a pity, considering the amount of time and money spent on
your education."
Was it his mother speaking? What had happened to her? Whence had come
the dry hardness in her voice? Why were her eyes so dead? They used to
steal quick little glances when she spoke. Now she only stared
listlessly. A home-coming? This for a home? In the house next door
there had been some stirring of life: the night when he had returned
home from Scotland: the strange days after his father's restoration.
The windows of the room were shut. René felt stifled. He made some
excuse and went away out of the house, and roamed through the familiar
streets. There were many houses empty: the gardens, some of which had
once been trim, were now unkempt. The whole district was dismal and
devitalized. Only the red trams clanging and clanking down the cobbled
streets made any stir and gaiety.
He found himself presently in Galt's Park. The little pink brick
houses had invaded it. Many of the big houses were pulled down: others
were being demolished, and only jagged walls and gaping windows were
left. On the site of the Brocks' house stood a little red-brick chapel
outside which were announcements in Welsh and English. That gave him a
shock. Some of the past life had been brushed away. He disliked the
idea of its room being usurped by a chapel, a place of Christian
worship. He did not know why he disliked this idea so much, but it was
connected vaguely with the image of his mother sitting in that room,
knitting and talking in an empty voice, and clinging obstinately to
rules of conduct.
At the other end of Galt's Park he came on a new street, flung
straight across what he remembered as fields. Following its dreary
length, he found himself near the Smallmans' house. It was now
completely shut in with little pink brick houses. He turned in at the
gate, rang at the bell and asked the maid if he could see the
Professor. He was left waiting in the hall where he had seen Linda's
green parasol. Here, too, there was no change. The Professor came out
looking very mysterious. He took a hat down, seized René by the arm
and led him out into the street.
"Well, well," he said. "I'm glad to see you, glad to see you. How are
you?"
"Very well." René felt inclined to laugh. Clearly the Professor was
trying not to hurt his feelings and to disguise the fact that he did
not think him fit to enter his house, that temple of domesticity.
"Tell me about yourself. One doesn't lose interest, you know."
This time René did not edit his experiences.
"I had heard stories," said the Professor. "I was reluctant to believe
them."
"Why?"
"Well--er-- You know--one expects----"
"That every man will do his duty."
"It is hardly a subject for satire," said the Professor.
René exploded:
"Good God! What else is it a subject for? England expects? Does the
whole duty of man consist in self-mutilation? Why, then, the noblest
man is he who shirks every responsibility, let his mind rot and his
feelings wither, so that he can attain a devilish efficiency at the
job into which he tumbles before he has begun to develop enough to
know what he can do. These are your successful men, your pundits, your
Lord Mayors, your merchant princes, your politicians----"
"My dear Fourmy, I think you should recollect that you hardly gave
yourself time to recognize what Thrigsby stands for, the greatest
industrial center in the world."
"I had time enough to realize what it has done for my father, my
mother, my brother, and myself."
"Two wrongs do not make a right, and I do not think you set about
remedying matters in the right way. You had every opportunity here.
You had escaped the pressure of industrialism. You had good brains."
"Brains!" cried René. "I had escaped from industrialism only to talk
about it."
"We are doing useful work. The defects of the system are slowly being
recognized as a result of our investigations."
"Can't you realize them without investigation? Aren't they as plain as
the nose on your face?"
"You can't find a remedy without investigation. That leads to mere
sentimental socialism. But why need we quarrel about that? You didn't
like the work. I hope you found more satisfaction in your
vagabondage."
"London is just as bad, rather worse, because the wickedness of it all
is glossed over with a kind of boastfulness. Here you either make
money or you don't. There, as far as I can see, your only chance is to
spend money: not that I saw much of that except from the outside;
still I did see all sorts and kinds of people, and you can make rough
conclusions about them."
"You don't mind my suggesting that you were hardly in a condition to
make impartial observations?"
"We don't seem able to use the same terms. You still think I was a
fool not to stay in my nice little home, with my nice little job and
my nice little income."
"I don't judge you. I only say that if everybody were to do the
same----"
"I only wish more people would. There'd soon be an end of congestion.
I only came round to-night because I couldn't stand the sight of my
brother settling down to his nice little home and my mother fast
freezing into a nice old lady--and then I find you terrified lest I
should enter and pollute your nice little home. I tell you, what I
have seen to-day has settled me. I came up here in a muddle about it
all, half feeling that I had made an ass of myself, but I'm absolutely
certain now----"
"But a man must think of his wife and children, and, indeed, you are
unjust. I have no fear of your disturbing my household. We should be
only too glad to see you, only it happened, if you must know, that my
wife was expecting Linda Brock. She uses her own name now."
René gave a shout of laughter.
"But I'd like to see her. How is she?"
"Her mother died six months ago and left her a great deal of money, a
fortune. We had no idea she was so rich. Linda wrote some plays, you
know. She has bought the theater and presented it to the Players. I am
one of the trustees. Thrigsby is very proud of the theater----
"It used to be music when I was young," said René, "and the orchestra
was always in debt."
"Art," said the Professor, "cannot be expected to pay for itself. We
are running the theater to a certain extent in connection with the
university----"
He had assumed the voice in which he lectured. René cut him short:
"I'd like to see Linda. Will you take me back with you."
"I--er----"
"You needn't thrust me on her. Just ask her if she'd like to see me,
and come out and tell me: yes or no. After all, if it comes to that,
we're still married. I believe, by the brutal laws of the country, I
could insist on seeing her whether she liked it or not. You might tell
her that I have come into some money also."
"Really? I'm so glad."
"Hurrah!" cried René, "you think I'll have to live up to it and settle
down."
"It would certainly be a splendid thing if----"
The Professor's whole attitude toward him was changed. Already, it was
clear, he was beginning to plan a grand scene of reconciliation, a
reformed René, a forgiving Linda, the Smallman family in the
background, symbolical of Impregnable Matrimony. René caught the hint
and his mind played with it and blew it out into a grotesque. It gave
him so much pleasure that he chuckled and said:
"It won't do, you know. We couldn't come together again without a
scandal."
The Professor was so intent on his own thoughts that he did not notice
the savage irony of the remark. He said:
"It would soon die down."
"Sooner than the other?"
"Well----!"
"I've got you there," observed René. "It wasn't fair though. I hadn't
the slightest intention of doing any such thing."
"Why, then----?"
"Why do I want to see her? I don't know. I want to. Isn't that reason
enough?"
They had returned to the house.
"You just ask her. Tell her I'm in Thrigsby for a few days and would
like to see her. If she doesn't wish it, don't worry. I'll wait ten
minutes."
"Very well," said the Professor, not altogether giving up hope, "I'll
tell her, but the way you talk of it seems to me almost indecent."
He let himself in at the front door, and in ten minutes was out again.
"Very well," he said, "she will see you. . . . If you don't mind, my
wife has gone up to her room."
"I wonder," thought René, "what they would make of Ann. They wouldn't
mind my leaving her."
He felt rather nervous as he reached the threshold of the study, but
stiffened himself for the plunge. The door opened and he found himself
shaking Linda warmly by the hand and asking after her health, and
explaining how he came to be in Thrigsby. Linda was noticeably
plumper, rounder, and more solid. He could see no charm in her and
thought her unsuitably dressed, tactlessly, provincially. On the
whole, he liked her. The handshake was firm, her eyes were frank.
"It was nice of you to come and see me," she said. "So much better to
have no nonsense about it."
"If you like," said the Professor, "I--I--will----"
Linda appealed to René.
"Oh, no. I've nothing to say. I only wanted to know that there was to
be no nonsense between us. I'm very glad. I wish we could have arrived
at that sooner, but I suppose that was impossible."
Linda smiled:
"You've changed, René. That would have been blasphemy to you a few
years ago. You hated coming to your senses."
"I should think so," said the Professor.
"You're not going to stay in Thrigsby?" asked Linda.
"No. That's impossible, even if I wanted to. We should be crossing
each other's tracks. Not that I should mind that, but---- Well, it
wouldn't do, would it?"
"No. I prefer being without a husband. Really, for an active woman it
seems to me to be the ideal condition. She has a status and no risk."
The Professor sat bolt upright:
"What _do_ you mean, Linda?"
"I won't insist on the advantages if it shocks you, Phil. René
understands me."
"Oh, yes," said René, "Linda means she can lose her head without any
danger of getting married."
The Professor exploded:
"I never heard of anything so--so abominable."
"But I did mean that," said Linda. "Women do lose their heads, you
know, even when they are married. Ask Freda. Don't look so hurt. She
and I were talking it over yesterday, and we agreed that the law was
so horrid that all I could do was to disregard it. And if René is
willing that is what I propose doing. You shall represent the world at
large. You do represent its opinion. You know----"
"I do not."
Linda passed over the interruption:
"You are the world at large and I say to you: 'This man is no longer
my husband.' No more than that should be necessary. You don't want any
more than that, do you, René?"
"Even that seems to me a needless statement of fact, but perhaps I'm
extreme."
The Professor rose and stood with his back to the fireplace: "All
this," he said, "is extremely distasteful. You are making a mock of
marriage."
Said René:
"We know more about it than you. We've tried disruption and you
haven't. We're both the better for it. The fact is, there is no such
thing as marriage. There are marriages, and precious few of them.
Yours, no doubt, is one of the few."
The Professor was mollified, swallowed the harangue he had prepared,
and sat down again.
René took Linda to her house in a remote suburb. She said:
"You know I quite dreaded meeting you again. I always had a feeling I
should. The poor dear Professor was quite disappointed because we
didn't make a scene."
"Oh, he didn't mind once we made it quite clear that we were casting
no shadow of doubt upon the sanctity of his own domestic happiness.
They're all like that."
"I'm sure he's quite convinced that you have become very wicked. Have
you?"
"No. Strict monogamist."
"What do you mean by that?"
"One wife at a time."